Silvertip Mountain you only hear the music when your heart begins to break

A contented noise almost like a purr rumbled in his throat at his priest's touch. He leaned into it, smiling slightly as Phocion yawned. Chrysos, he called him, and something warm fluttered in his chest. At that moment, his desire for speech intensified tenfold; words sat heavy on his tongue now, ones he had never thought to say before. Now that he could not, they were at the front of his mind. Nothing was more important.
Cortland took to grooming whatever part of Phocion he could reach, still quite gentle and tentative. It didn't hurt his tongue so long as he was careful, though. All he could think was that he wished he could talk. He pressed closer against his friend, willing himself not to shed frustrated tears as the words he desperately wanted to say played on repeat through his mind. It was maddening. Eventually the Mayfair tucked himself against Phocion to sleep as well, though not without a single mournful whine, a sentiment he would forget upon waking until it inevitably struck him again: I love you.